Dear Mr. Claus:
I have decided it’s time to bury the hatchet and let bygones be bygones.
I haven’t written you since I was nine years old, so the first thing you might notice is that my spelling has improved just a little bit in the last 53 years.
In my defense, my brother helped me write the last one I wrote to you in 1967 and — between me and you — he can’t spell much better now. I think it might have something to do with that hockey puck you gave him that year or the plastic hockey stick I got. Oh, and don’t take this the wrong way Santa, but you might consider giving plastic hockey sticks to interior decorators, not to burgeoning NHL stars.
My brother, you may recall, fancied himself as a goalie — the next Tony Esposito, no less — and I was the one and only Bobby Orr.
The only perceivable barrier to those longshot goals, however, was the fact that neither of us knew how to skate, mostly because you didn’t deliver the skates we ordered for Christmas 1966.
Okay, long story short, Orr and Esposito went outside in the yard on Christmas Day 1967 to try out Esposito’s new puck and Orr’s new hockey stick.
Right at the first drop of the puck, Orr winds up, ready to unleash that deadly slapshot.
Esposito crouches low in the “net” waiting for the shot.
Orr’s plastic stick makes contact. The stick’s blade breaks in half and flies toward the net ahead of the puck.
The blade bounces off Esposito’s head.
The puck also goes flying off like greased lightning.
Esposito falls back into his imaginary net; imaginary because Santa failed to bring the hockey net we ordered the previous year.
Normally, Esposito would have used his blocker to stop the puck or snatch it up in his quick glove but, unfortunately, Esposito also didn’t get the blocker he ordered from Santa last year either.
I do get your logic, Santa.
What use are a blocker or a net when you don’t even have a puck? Okay, Santa, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt on that one but there’s more, as you well know.
To recap the Bruins/Blackhawks game, the future Mr. Orr winds up and takes his shot from the “blue-line.” Esposito takes a stick to the noggin and hits the ice, but being the all-star goalie known as Esposito, he stopped the puck dead in its tracks.
Unfortunately, he stopped it with his teeth.
Orr stood there, puzzled by the sight of Esposito lying inert on the ground; Esposito’s boots were heels-in-the-snow, toes-up in the imaginary goal crease. Both his elbows were bent, and his frozen mitts were busy at his face doing something or other.
It almost looked like he was trying to eat the puck.
He wasn’t. As future NHL stars, we’d already gobbled down our morning Wheaties before hockey practice, so I knew he wasn’t that hungry. Apparently, the puck was stuck in Esposito’s mouth.
He groaned and muttered something almost incoherent, but vaguely familiar like a word some adults use when they stub a toe or trip over a kid’s toy. It sure sounded like “puck,” but I sure wouldn’t swear it in a court of law. In fact, the more he said it, the less it sounded to me like “puck” at all.
It was then that I experienced a temporary moment of clarity.
The jig was up. The proof was in the pudding. We were getting ripped off here and we believed we had a case to make.
“Something is amiss here,” I thought, and had one of those “note-to-self” moments.
I finally knew the real score and I was miffed. Miffed but mostly mad.
I can’t recall the entire letter I dashed off verbatim to Santa that year because it’s been 53 years. Besides that, my spelling may have rendered the document illegible, as well.
Before I begin, please extend my sincerest apologies to Mrs. Claus. I am hoping she doesn’t carry a grudge like some of us do. Gulp.
Anyway, here’s the gist of that letter. Also, for your information, Santa, it was written in what is commonly known in 1967 as Newfoundland vernacular. So, here goes nothing. Ahem:
“Deer mister claws: u is a big dumb, fat, old man. I hope Rudalph eats ex-lax next yeer beefor ye goes out on yer slay nects yeer and it’s as foggie as heck on xmas eeve. I saw wat da Mooneys nects door got from ya dis yeer and by the looks o’ her … u give dem all the stuff we axed fer … fer da lass 10 yeers.
“How cum ye did dat b’y? we also seen wat ye gave da crowd on da hill in dat big house and dee got stuff comin outta der eeers. How cum we got a puck and a hackey stik and nudding else?
“Oh, I fergot the stewpid mittens and socks ya give us two. Cripes. Pleez tell misses claws that she can’t knit for crap. Thanks fer nudding and pleez tell the elfs they are stunned arses.”
Oh well.
Tony Esposito finally spit the puck out and managed to wobble off the imaginary rink to the dressing room. He didn’t return for the third period, suffice to say.
He also didn’t eat solid food for a month and spent the rest of the winter visiting the dentist, who always seemed especially pleased to see him.
We never did make the NHL and to make matters worse, our parents shelled out close to a half-million bucks to the dentist to fix Esposito’s teeth.
Okay, it wasn’t really a half-million bucks, but I do think it’s no small coincidence that the same dentist bought an exclusive timeshare in Timbuktu somewhere that same year.
No sense asking you for some money I know, Santa — I’ve seen how hard up you are some years, out standing on street corners in all kinds of weather, ringing a bell, asking complete strangers for money.
One can only assume — and hope and pray — that the elves aren’t embezzling your earnings for their own timeshare somewhere, too. You should know better than anyone that you can’t trust a 900-year-old elf.
That said, please don’t fret it, Santa: I have no plans to sue you — just throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks. Besides, if it comes to that, I’d be perfectly willing to settle out of court.
Let’s not dwell on money now though. It’s Christmas, after all and a happy ho ho ho to you, big guy.
Please also tell Rudy, I am sorry for saying I hope he gets the runs. That wasn’t very nice of me. Besides that, he’s a good little reindeer and I’m sure all the other reindeer bullied him enough already without my help.
Anyway Santa, I was thinking that maybe you need to initiate better quality control protocols to avoid disputes from clients in future. It doesn’t hurt to do your due diligence you know.
Today’s kids aren’t like us kids a half-century ago, you know. Some of them have law degrees by the time they enter grammar school now and — you should also know — that there are a few ticked little tykes out there who wouldn’t need much encouragement to file a class action lawsuit. Just sayin’, Santa.
Think about it: if three wise men could jump on their camels at the spur of the moment, loaded down with gold, frankincense and myrrh for a Baby Jesus they never even met, I see no reason — notwithstanding the fact that I am no messiah — that you couldn’t bring the future Bobby Orr a wooden hockey stick or a goalie mask for Esposito.
Did I wrongly assume that this was supposed to be your job as Santa Claus?
Either way, I guess it’s time to get to the gist of my letter to you.
You may think I am too old now to be asking Santa for stuff, but I’m a big believer in giving someone second chances – especially when that someone is considered a saint in certain circles.
Okay, here goes nothing Santa.
Here is my list for Christmas 2020: I want a pair of handknit woolen mittens; a pair of handknit woolen socks; one pair of skates size 10; one hockey stick; one blocker.
Oh, and while I’m at it, I may as well ask you for world peace and an end to the pandemic.
If, for some reason that is not in your big bag of tricks, then please focus on the important stuff like my new mitts and socks.
What can I say Santa? Mrs. Claus isn’t such a bad knitter I suppose, and I guess hindsight really is 20/20, especially in this strange year called 2022.
Have a Merry Covid-free Christmas and a Happy End to 2022.
Wayne G. Collins is a freelance writer in Guelph. Collins is available for freelance writing jobs and can be contacted at [email protected].
